The Wedding Wager

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

Bramleigh Military Hospital for

Enlisted Men

1812

The whole place smelled of men.

Leonora Freemantle could almost feel her nose twitch and her muscles tense, like a hare or hind scenting predators on the wind. Looking neither left nor right, she strode down the ward behind Matron. As she passed bed after bed of convalescing soldiers, she sensed their covert glances, heard their muttered quips.

“Looks like Matron’s got a new dragon-in-training, lads.”

“D’yer reckon she’s sucking on a lemon?”

“Puts me in mind of me old drill sergeant.”

The derisive snickers dogged Leonora’s footsteps. Thrusting out her chin and stiffening her spine, she fiercely resisted the urge to adjust her spectacles and straighten her bonnet. They might take it as a sign of weakness. Never would she give them the satisfaction of thinking she cared for their opinion in the least.

Still, she could not quench the blistering blush that seared her face. How long had some of these men been without a woman? Yet they still found her laughably unappealing.

At least they were honest about their feelings. One could not say the same for most of their sex. That, Leonora had learned from bitter experience.

Matron veered into a small common room, heading straight for a clutch of men crouched in one corner. Leonora heard the muted click of dice tumbling along the hardwood floor. A shout went up, followed by a flurry of muttered curses.

“Knicked-it again, Archer!” cried one of the spectators in tones of grudging admiration. “Damned if you ain’t the luckiest elbow-shaker I’ve ever seen.”

At the mention of that name, Leonora perked up her ears. If this was the Sergeant Archer she’d come to see, it was encouraging to know he liked gambling.

The thrower scooped up his ivories with a practiced motion. “Luck’s got naught to do with it.” A note of teasing laughter warmed his words. “It’s skill, my boy, simple as that.”

“Ser’nt Archer!” Matron descended on the players like a terrier into a chicken coop. “How m’ny times have I told ye? Thar’s to be no gamblin’ in the hospital!”

The sergeant rose to his feet, unfolding the long, lean-muscled body of a Rifleman. For an instant he winced, as though the movement hurt him. Then his features blossomed into a smile of devastating charm, which he fixed upon Matron.

Leonora’s sensible, bluestocking heart began to flutter in a most unnerving fashion. Nothing in Cousin Wesley’s letters from the Peninsula had prepared her for the sight of his sergeant.

Stop it! she willed herself. Stop this foolishness, at once!

Her traitorous body mutinied. Her breath quickened.

Why should the sight of this man affect her so? Leonora asked herself as she watched him jolly Matron into a mood of exasperated tolerance. She hoped an intellectual consideration of the problem might bring her insurgent emotions back under control.

Why him? She’d seen far handsomer specimens—at least by the standard of the times. Smoother, blander, more uniformly proportioned.

There was nothing smooth or bland about this man’s face. Every feature was bold and definite. The nose and chin jutted out as though hewn from golden-brown stone, ready to take on the world. The wide, bowed mouth looked capable of a vast spectrum of expression, while the dark eyes wielded a provocative, penetrating gaze.

On a face less striking, the emphatic black eyebrows would have dominated. On Sergeant Morse Archer, they harmonized into an aspect of arresting appeal.

“What have we here?” He turned his piercing, hypnotic eyes upon Leonora, one full brow raised expressively.

Their color was a dynamic melding of green, brown and gold, Leonora realized as Sergeant Archer stepped toward her. For the first time in many years she yearned to be beautiful. His striking good looks made her all too aware of her own shortcomings. Though she told herself it was the height of folly, she could not help wanting him to like what he saw.

Matron answered his question. “A visitor for ye, Ser’nt Archer. Now mind yer manners.”

At a look from the sergeant, his gambling companions rapidly dispersed. Matron took up a post just outside the door. Whether she meant to guard the privacy of their conversation, or to act as some sort of chaperon, Leonora was not certain.

“What can such a lovely lady want with the likes of me?” asked Sergeant Archer once the room had cleared. His voice was as rich and mellow as well-aged brandy. Once again he unleashed his potent smile.

A shiver of icy wrath went through Leonora. Lovely lady? The liar! Did this cynical charmer expect her to lap up his spurious flattery? As she pulled off her glove, she longed to smack it against his cheek. Remembering how desperately she needed to win his cooperation, she curbed her ire and thrust out her hand for him to shake.

“Sergeant Archer, I’m Leonora Freemantle. I believe you know my uncle, Sir Hugo Peverill. I’ve come to make you a proposition.”

She could tell her words unsettled him, though he made a determined effort to hide it. Those expressive brows drew together and his mien darkened like a summer sky before a storm. His deep voice rumbled with the muted menace of distant thunder.

“Go away, Miss Freemantle. I’m not interested in your proposition.”